The look was like the fall of light on the hills from the first of morning.  It lasted half a minute, and left a ruffle for a good half-hour.  Even the younger fellows, without knowing what affected them, were moved by the new picture of a girl, as if it had been a frontispiece of a romantic story some day to be read.  She looked compelled to look, but consenting and unashamed; at home in submission; just the look that wins observant boys, shrewd as dogs to read by signs, if they are interested in the persons.  They read Browny’s meaning:  that Matey had only to come and snatch her; he was her master, and she was a brave girl, ready to go all over the world with him; had taken to him as he to her, shot for shot.  Her taking to the pick of the school was a capital proof that she was of the right sort.  To be sure, she could not much help herself.

Some of the boys regretted her not being fair.  But, as they felt, and sought to explain, in the manner of the wag of a tail, with elbows and eyebrows to one another’s understanding, fair girls could never have let fly such look; fair girls are softer, woollier, and when they mean to look serious, overdo it by craping solemn; or they pinafore a jigging eagerness, or hoist propriety on a chubby flaxen grin; or else they dart an eye, or they mince and prim and pout, and are sigh-away and dying-ducky, given to girls’ tricks.  Browny, after all, was the girl for Matey.

She won a victory right away and out of hand, on behalf of her cloud-and-moon sisters, as against the sunny-meadowy; for slanting intermediates are not espied of boys in anything:  conquered by Browny; they went over to her colour, equal to arguing, that Venus at her mightiest must have been dark, or she would not have stood a comparison with the forest Goddess of the Crescent, swanning it through a lake—­on the leap for run of the chase—­watching the dart, with her humming bow at breast.  The fair are simple sugary thing’s, prone to fat, like broad-sops in milk; but the others are milky nuts, good to bite, Lacedaemonian virgins, hard to beat, putting us on our mettle; and they are for heroes, and they can be brave.  So these boys felt, conquered by Browny.  A sneaking native taste for the forsaken side, known to renegades, hauled at them if her image waned during the week; and it waned a little, but Sunday restored and stamped it.

By a sudden turn the whole upper-school had fallen to thinking of girls, and the meeting on the Sunday was a prospect.  One of the day-boarders had a sister in the seminary of Miss Vincent.  He was plied to obtain information concerning Browny’s name and her parents.  He had it pat to hand in answer.  No parents came to see her; an aunt came now and then.  Her aunt’s name was not wanted.  Browny’s name was Aminta Farrell.

Farrell might pass; Aminta was debated.  This female Christian name had a foreign twang; it gave dissatisfaction.  Boy after boy had a try at it, with the same effect:  you could not speak the name without a pursing of the month and a puckering of the nose, beastly to see, as one little fellow reminded them on a day when Matey was in more than common favour, topping a pitch of rapture, for clean bowling, first ball, middle stump on the kick, the best bat of the other eleven in a match; and, says this youngster, drawling, soon after the cheers and claps had subsided to business, “Aminta.”